Eye of the Storm
by elliott ashes
Summary: HIATUS OVER! Plot ideas by satsu and InugamiSuduko. Many years have passed. Dodger thought she had gotten away, but her past has caught up to her... in the form of Owen, and of a teenage boy who has been studying the murders. Dodger/Owen
1. Returning

Eye of the Storm

Chapter One

Returning

Disclaimer: I don't own Cry Wolf. Full credit for the plot ideas goes to satsu and InugamiSuduko. I hope that it is okay I combined your two great ideas into one fic, and I am very sorry it took me so long to write the first chapter. Here are the ideas submitted by satsu and InugamiSuduko:

satsu: What if Dodger ran into someone who gave her a taste of her own medicine? Someone manipulating, sadistic, and who knows the truth of her past...

Inugamisuduko: A Dodger/Owen fic. Dodger moved away from that town but Owen trailed her and they have a kind of on and off relationship, fighting then kissing.

I hope you like this fic, feedback is always appreciated.

It was raining hard, heavy drops splattering against the windows of the bus as it plowed ahead. Inside the vehicle, a thin pale man in a shabby coat watched with disinterest as the world passed him by. The driver was keeping an eye on him via the rearview mirror; he sensed the stranger to be the troublemaking type. The traveler had not yet spoken a word during the entire lengthy trip, but other passengers seemed to pick up the same vibe about him and kept at a distance from the brooding fellow, leaving him to gaze at the empty night streets undisturbed.

The tires ground to a halt against the pavement and the bus doors groaned in protest before they resigned themselves to flapping wetly in the wind. The man in the coat was the first to depart, but, just before doing so, he _may _have uttered one word: "Thanks." His voice was quiet and surprisingly non-threatening; sadder than it was angry or intimidating. He may have had a slight accent, but the driver couldn't place it.

But maybe he hadn't said that. Judging by the loud storm outside, the shuffling of passengers… there was a lot of white noise floating about, wasn't there? It could have just been footsteps, the wind, myriad things. His imagination.

The driver found the possibility that he had imagined it oddly comforting, so he clung to that. The man was now out of sight, as were his other passengers. He embarrassedly realized he'd been daydreaming and hastily closed the doors and started to drive off. The weather was still terrible.

But if he hadn't imagined it…

Enough, he told himself. It was no use obsessing over something so insignificant.

Besides, how much could you really tell from just one word?

…

The figure walked down the street with quick purposeful strides. Aside from his coat, his clothing was obviously new: Plain white t-shirt, dark expensive jeans, a black ball cap. He was soaked but seemed to pay this no mind, despite the waterfall falling from the brim of his cap directly in front of his eyes.

His eyes scanned his surroundings meticulously as he trekked, taking in every suburban detail. The sky was a strange mix of navy blue and generic grey, a huge dome hanging low overhead. Dark trees whipped around, bent precariously by the same heavy winds that flung a constant barrage of raindrops his way.

Spotting his destination, the man quickened his pace and ascended the walkway. After pressing down harder than necessary on the button, he could make out the sound of the doorbell reverberating through the house. Other than that, there was no response. He rang again, and this time he heard movement from inside. A moment later, the door was jerked open to reveal a static-haired, bleary-eyed man wearing jeans and a faded shirt that looked like he had just thrown them on now. "Dude, do you realize what time it is?" he groaned.

"No, actually."

"Well, what do you want? You selling something?" the tired guy asked aggressively.

"Don't you recognize me, Tom?"

Tom squinted his bloodshot eyes at the traveler, scrutinizing him. Surprise suddenly lit up his features, jolting him to full consciousness. "O-Dog?" he said, disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Can I come in?"

"Sure," said Tom dazedly.

Inside, Tom handed Owen some dry clothes and towels and started the coffee maker up. The place was dark; though the curtains were open there was hardly any light outside to come through the window. Tom flicked a few switches and the dwelling filled with yellowish light. Owen did as Tom directed him and silently took a seat at a kitchen chair, the towels wrapped around him like blankets.

Out of his tattered coat, Owen looked very much the same as when Tom had last seen him. He'd gained some weight, but not in a bad way, just as part of getting older. It _had _been nearly ten years. Owen still looked young and, aside from being too pale, healthy. Only his eyes gave any indication of what he had gone through. They were wide and haunted, like a TV show child-abuse victim's.

"I was worried you wouldn't let me in," Owen intoned, breaking the silence.

"Of course I let you in. You're my friend," Tom said.

"We haven't spoken since high school."

"I know. But we can fix that now."

"You're not afraid of me," Owen remarked. "Why?"

"Well, why would I be?" reasoned Tom.

"I killed someone. Even with self-defense reducing the term, they ruled I was guilty."

"And since when have I ever cared what _"they" _say?"

"You mean, you believe I was set up? Owen waited for confirmation.

Tom sighed. " Yeah. I don't think you'd have done something like that yourself."

"Thanks. That… that means a lot to me. That at least one person believes me."

"Hey, what are roommates for?" That caused a ghost of a smile to appear on Owen's face. "That reminds me: How long do you plan on staying here, anyway?"

"I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean to intrude. I can book into a hotel if that would be easier for you," said Owen.

"No! That's not what I meant, I was just wondering how long you'd be in town and all."

"Oh. Well, I guess it will take as long as I need to do what I came here for."

"And that would be?" asked Tom, raising an eyebrow.

"I came to catch up with someone," said Owen.

"And by someone you would mean… me?" inquired Tom.

"No, though it is nice to see you again. I came to find Dodger."

Tom looked at him quizzically. "Dodger? This 'cause you guys used to have a thing in high school?"

"Actually, it's because she's the one who set me up."

Tom paled. "No," he said shakily. "No, that can't be right. I've known her for years, we've gone for coffee together, kept in touch. I _moved _here because she said the job opportunities were good. You're saying _Dodger _did it?"

Owen only nodded. They sat wordlessly for a moment, just listening to the coffee machine burbling and the clock ticking away the seconds. Through the window, Tom saw that a few rays of sun were managing to stretch their way over the grey clouds. He stood up and poured them both a cup of coffee, taking a long swill from his. It was scalding hot, but he felt he needed the energy as soon as possible. He was feeling very tired, and he didn't like the sensation one bit. "Dodger did it," he repeated into the silence. Turning to Owen, he said solemnly, "Just be careful, man."

…

_What's wrong with this picture?  
_

Dodger's vivid blue eyes scanned the classroom calculatingly, quickly picking out what hadn't been there before: A tall neatly-dressed young man was leaning against the back wall, nonchalantly watching the students interact. He was pale with curly light brown hair that fell in waves down to just below his shoulders. A student teacher? She hadn't gotten any notice about one. He suddenly looked up and gazed straight at Dodger, and she felt herself tense up, a bit embarrassed to have been caught staring.

He began to walk directly in her direction. "Oh, hello," he said casually. "Is this the advanced literature class?"

"Yes, it is. New here?" Dodger responded. Up close she saw he had deep brown eyes and soft features.

"Completely. I look lost?"

Dodger smiled at that. "No, actually. But I teach here and you do look unfamiliar. I think I'd remember if I'd met you before."

He returned her smile with a friendly grin. "Yes, I'm told I'm a pretty memorable guy."

They both jumped a bit at the jarring sound of the bell. "Time for class." It was not Doger but the newcomer who stated the obvious, barely audible under his breath. Momentarily, students ceased their conversing (or at least reduced the volume a bit) and piled into their respective desks.

Dodger turned to the newcomer to tell him she'd find a place for him – but he wasn't there. "Where…" she trailed off. At the front of the classroom, the newcomer stood before the students, radiating authority. She realized all the chatter in the room had ceased as the class looked to him expectantly. It was a bit of an unprofessional way of directing himself, but she had to admit he did a good job of getting the students' attention.

"My name is Kyle McDermott," he began. "I am a new student at this school and will be attending this class."

Wait. Student? He seems so much older… The fact that he was a student made his sudden speech much more cocky and just… odd. Despite this he somehow managed to come across as formal and polite, even to Dodger. Her pupils weren't mocking him either, which was highly uncharacteristic of them. 

"I apologize for any confusion that may have been caused by my arriving in the middle of the term. There was an incident at my former school that required my immediate transfer."

Incident? Dodger made a mental note to look into that.

"Thank you for your attention," he concluded, taking a seat in an empty desk near the front of the class.

…

Despite her surprise that morning, Dodger's day seemed to be progressing uneventfully. Her class that morning concluded in what seemed like seconds after McDermott's speech was over. She didn't see him again all day, not that she really expected to considering the large number of students attending the school. As she was driving the half-hour trip back to her house, she recalled her plan to find out why he had transferred. She couldn't quite place what, but there was something about him she found oddly fascinating. Perhaps it was just that he was new, a mystery.

She unlocked the door to her house and stepped inside. That was strange; the lights were on. She always turned them off before she left; it was routine.

"Dodger," a male voice stated. Startled, she glanced around herself, eyes coming to rest on the man seated rigidly on a chair in her dining room.

"What are you doing here? Who are you?" she demanded. She knew she'd pissed a lot of people off in the span of her life; it was part of being anyone in a position of authority. But she honestly had no idea who this was.

"Oh, you forgot me? Tom didn't recognize me either, but I thought you at least would. Then again, I suppose you haven't seen me since high school."

_Owen. _


	2. Smoldering

Eye of the Storm

Chapter Two

Smoldering

…

"What do you want?" Dodger finally asked. She was wracking her brain trying to figure it out, but it just didn't make sense. He'd served his sentence, so why not just move on? Admittedly, if it had been her she would have come back for revenge, but Owen had always been different than her.

But time had changed him. His brown eyes had lost their innocent, vulnerable quality, and now all that remained was an intense, stony gaze, like he was taking everything in and wasn't particularly pleased with what he saw. As they stood there in the dim light, his mouth tonelessly formed the words, "For you to be sorry."

She replied, "I'm sorry. Will you go now?" Despite trying to keep her voice equally toneless, the slightest hint of mockery crept in.

Owen shook his head, expression unchanging.

Dodger had always been talented at reading people, since she was a child. People were more mathematical than they liked to admit, and for all their apparent irrationalities, it was just a matter of figuring out the formula. Crack that, and one could analyze anyone in but a moment - and hide anything for as long as required. She had tricked people into giving her material things, power, even relationships. Anything she wanted, because she knew the formula.

But this was different. She wasn't the type to feel fear, but she was bothered. Not only was Owen not acting like himself, he wasn't acting human.

"You misunderstand me. I have no desire for an apology. I want you to be sorry," said Owen.

Revenge? That had been her first instinct, the logical path of action as well as the typical emotional response. Across the table was a heavy iron paperweight. He was going to hit her over the head with it. One hard whack, and that would be it. Or maybe he'd brought his own weapon. He didn't know the paperweight was going to be here, and he'd had time to plan this out. Nothing spur of the moment whatsoever about this. Of course, Dodger kept weapons of her own concealed around the house. Still slung over her shoulder, her purse contained the standard can of pepper spray, as well as a switchblade and a syringe full of a deadly, not to mention highly illegal, poison. Perhaps it was a bit of overkill, pardon the pun, but she knew something like this would happen eventually. She realized her hand was gravitating towards the switchblade.

As Owen rose, her breath caught in her throat. This was it, kill or be killed. Or both. Maybe he'd torture her? What she'd done to him had affected his life for years, would probably always have some effect on him; he'd want to do something lasting to her. She wouldn't allow him the satisfaction - that was what the syringe was for. Even a few drops would result in instant death. Technically, she supposed death was something lasting, but it came eventually to everyone and she had always been unusually indifferent to the matter, to her advantage. Faced with death staring her directly in the face, she noted with dull surprise that she had broken out in a cold sweat. Maybe she was a bit afraid. Huh.

All these thoughts ran through Dodger's mind in the span of mere seconds, her naturally abnormally fast thinking speed accelerated to the breaking point by fear… or whatever it was. Images flashed behind her eyes – rain, knives, blood, guns, glasses, metal piercings reflecting the light of the stars; an entire album of photographs taken subconsciously during those two nights she had played the angel of death, accompanied by staccato piano music that came from nowhere.

Owen.

This was it…

But he didn't kill her. He stood before her, leaned in and kissed her quick and hard on the mouth before calmly walking out the door.

Dodger ran out after him, shouting, "Hey! Wait!" but he didn't, couldn't because he was long gone. It startled Dodger when it occurred to her that after he'd kissed her, she must have simply stood there like an idiot, lost in lack-of-thought. Her lips still tingled. It wasn't a sentimental metaphor but a fact, although it was uncharacteristic of her. Even her own body had betrayed her.

What would she say when she saw Owen again? In fact, _would _she even see him again? She somehow thought so, although that may just have been the uncharacteristic sentimentality talking again. The criminal always returned to the scene of the crime, but Owen wasn't the criminal.

She was. And she hadn't returned.

Yet.

Not knowing what else to do, Dodger went to bed without bothering to eat or change, and soon fell into a troubled sleep.

…

"Yo! McDermott!"

By now the rain had ceased, and the thick grey clouds begun to disperse, allowing brilliant blades of sunlight to infiltrate the forest. Wild evergreens towered overhead, and moss and other small plants carpeted the muddy forest floor. To the casual observer, this would seem to be one of the few retreats left untouched by deforestation, urban development, humanity in general.

That is, until the house came into view, along with the scruffy-looking teenage boy running out of it. Although nowhere close to the height of the ancient trees, the structure looming ahead was far from modest. Calling it a mansion would be more accurate than to refer to it as a house. A rich, decadent mansion, at least from the outside. But Kyle, who had seen the contents countless times, knew otherwise.

"Kyyy-lllle, get over here already!" _Shut up! _The scruffy boy was bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation. Kyle actually slowed down slightly, amused at how each squelching step must be agony for the impatient other boy.

"Hello, Erik," acknowledged Kyle as he let himself in through the screen door. Taking a seat on a dilapidated old-fashioned chair, one of the sparse furnishings Erik had managed to salvage from outside a house on trash day, his eyes narrowed on the sticklike figure standing across the room, back arched as she gazed out the window. _She _was here. Carol.

Although she was a 17-year-old girl, Carol took androgyny to a whole new level, whether intentionally or not. With pale skin and freckles, as well as short wild brown hair that looked as though it had never seen a comb in its life, Kyle did not find her the least bit attractive. Gawky and bony, she was weak on so many levels. She obviously wanted people to like her, despite having no social skills whatsoever and only ever dressing in cheap baggy pants and black heavy-metal t-shirts. Today was no exception; as she turned to face him, Kyle took in today's shirt, emblazoned with laughably poorly drawn blue-skinned zombies, no doubt from some album's cover art. She looked surprised to see him, but he reminded himself Carol always looked surprised, due to her oddly wide eyes which were further magnified by her bent-up lopsided glasses, making her look like some freakish insect.

Kyle wasn't particularly fond of people in general, but he reserved a special brand of loathing strictly for Carol. Not that he let her know this, of course. Yes, he would subtly remind her of her own weakness, but always while maintaining a façade of friendship. He was skilled at concealing his true feelings, a talent that came in great use for a person as full of hate as himself.

Occasionally Kyle had the disturbing inkling she was aware of his hatred towards her, but he always attributed such thoughts to paranoia and simply dismissed them. Carol suffered from a well-deserved inferiority complex and probably thought everybodyhated her.

Kyle would have been all too happy to avoid all association with her, but she and Erik had come as a package deal. And as much as Kyle detested being reliant on anyone else, he knew he needed Erik. At least for the time being.

Kyle had met both Erik and Carol last year, on the first day of high school. He'd been on the bus, and had just taken a seat near the front, by himself since he saw no one he wished to socialize with. He sat there simply listening to the other students converse on the off-chance someone said something that would prove useful.

"I've been researching, and I'm more convinced than ever that Owen was never guilty." Kyle's ears pricked up upon hearing the boy's voice, and he turned all his focus to that discussion.

"I know. I mean, he had no motive." This voice was impossible to place on the gender spectrum. Rough and awkward sounding, like a rarely utilized tool that had grown rusty.

It really sounded like they were talking about the Westlake Prep Murders. But honestly, since when was that the type of thing people discussed on the bus? Kyle swiveled his head. One of the participants was an unhealthy-looking teenager of indeterminate sex. The other was a chubby guy with long greasy brown hair, old unfashionable clothing that had probably formerly been his father's, and the unpleasant beginnings of a beard.

Obvious social outcasts.

The only people who would possibly discuss this kind of thing on a school bus. Kyle decided he would wait before approaching them; though he was charismatic and knew it, he was also well aware that appearing too eager around those kind of people, especially on his first day at this new school, could effectively destroy his reputation before he even had a chance to build it up. There was a high probability this was a false alarm, and he didn't want to find out these people knew nothing about the incident after blowing his chances of social acceptance.

So he waited patiently, simply continuing to listen. He learned their names, Carol and Erik. He learned his instincts had been correct, and they were outcasts. And he learned this wasn't a false alarm – they really did know the case, maybe even better than he himself, though Kyle found them rather too sympathetic towards Owen. They weren't of the few who claimed Dodger was behind it all simply because they wanted an alternative minority opinion. They sincerely believed Owen had too much "moral fiber" (not enough guts, Kyle knew they meant) to do such a thing on his own free will. The teacher had been a sleaze, undoubtedly, but murder just didn't fit his patterns of behavior up until his death.

Kyle himself had been a long-time lurker of such speculative websites and was familiar with the sources quoted by Erik and Carol, such as the fan-made psychological profiles. The computer database at the high school where years ago it all went down had been hacked when a teenager half-way across the country had realized the administration never bothered to change the password from "**DEFAULT**." The hacker had accessed the records of all those involved, shared them with the people on the murder's discussion "fan" websites. All grades, report cards, and teacher's comments became public knowledge… if one knew where to look. The speculators, most of them only teenagers themselves, had no idea where the information came from, but had used it to construct the psychological profiles. The administration still did not know of the breach of security; indeed, only one person in the world did.

That person was Kyle, because he had been the hacker. And despite Erik and Carol's (especially the latter's) sappy over-sentimentalism, he believed they were right about one thing: somehow, Dodger had been behind it. The comments the teachers made about her were much the same as those Kyle's teachers made about him: intelligent, popular, manipulative. Of course, that last comment was only made by teachers they had had very early in their school lives, before they'd learned to manipulate even teachers into seeing them as flawless.

He had waited a few weeks before approaching the Vultures, as those in the murder-obsessed "community" were known. During this incubation period, he never made more than brief eye contact, and they never exchanged a single word.

At least in person.


	3. Preparing

Eye of the Storm

Chapter Three

Preparing

…

A few days before they first spoke to Kyle, both Erik and Carol established close on-line friendships with a fellow murder enthusiast who went by the name of WestlakeWolf.

Meanwhile, Kyle was developing his brand-new online alias: called WestlakeWolf, of course. Also unknown to Erik and Carol, Kyle had hacked into both their email accounts (Carol's security question had been "What is my dog's name?" and she had answered it herself in her profile on one of the sites. It was a wonder someone hadn't gotten around to hacking in sooner). He was already an expert on their hangouts, interests, musical tastes, habits, and personalities in general – and he had never even spoken to them face to face. He was prepared.

So one day in the halls, after school had let out, Kyle approached the pair. He appeared completely casual about it; walked past their lockers on his way to the door, turned around and did a double take. "Say, haven't I seen you guys around?" he'd said.

Erik had answered him. "Yeah, you're on my bus. In my calc class too, right? Advanced placement 2B?"

"Uh huh," agreed Kyle, smiling shyly.

Erik continued, "I'm Erik, and she's Carol." Kyle didn't actually give a shit about Carol – after corresponding with her, he already knew too much about her to see any point in establishing a friendship with the girl. She was strange, stupid, and just plain boring to him. He'd seen her type before – weak and trusting. True, they could be useful in some situations, but Kyle wanted to avoid spending any more time around her than strictly necessary.

Erik was much more intriguing. Possessing of a sharp, cynical sense of humor, not to mention some interesting theories, he'd be of much more use, as well as entertainment. Though Carol might be naïve, heR revolting innocence was not something that could be easily cast off. On the other hand, Erik would be easy to manipulate, shape into whatever Kyle wanted him as. And what Kyle wanted was an accomplice.

Oh yeah. He knew their types.

Still playing the shy façade, Kyle introduced himself. He listened to Erik and Carol's introductions and small talk for a while, nodding along and occasionally interjecting with short, polite monosyllables. Finally he asked, "So, what kind of stuff are you interested in?"

"The Westlake Prep murders," Carol answered, without the slightest hesitation.

Erik threw a look of mild annoyance her way. "He doesn't want to hear about that kind of stuff, Car."

"Actually, I find it kind of interesting. Fascinating, really," encouraged Kyle.

"You know about the murders?" said Erik. His eyes lit up.

"Of course. Who hasn't?"

Erik nodded his agreement. "Yeah, but most forgot after the initial hype died down. The public memory is pretty sad. It's a wonder the news doesn't start out with 'Previously, on the news: Five seconds ago, you heard me speak.'"

"True," replied Kyle, laughing.

"Test time," announced Carol, looking Kyle straight in the eye. "Who do _you _think did it?"

Kyle appeared to think for a moment. "You know…" he pronounced, "I'm rather suspicious of Dodger."

Carol immediately hugged him, and Kyle awkwardly put his own arms around her, though he didn't much like the feeling of her bony chest pressed against him.

"Welcome to the club, man." Erik had beamed as he extended a hand. Kyle took it, grinning back.

And together with Erik and Carol, he had continued his research, hacking, and tracking, always careful to remain several steps ahead of his assistants. Finally, a few months ago, there had been a breakthrough, and they were able to locate Dodger using her credit card information and cookies placed on her computer.

Kyle had thus decided to meet and analyze her. He didn't know what Erik or Carol expected him to do now that he had found her, or even if they had planned that far.

But he had.

Now, in the badly lit room, Erik took a seat opposite Kyle and Carol, remaining standing, said, "So? Did you find her?"

A smile found its way onto Kyle's face. Probably the first genuine smile he had ever aimed at her. "Yeah, it's her all right."

As much as Kyle disliked Carol, he had to admit she had her uses. For one, she was a conduit for information on Erik. And after all, it was her that had found them this place. According to Carol, her parents had gone through a messy divorce in which they had both fought viciously over who got custody of her. In an attempt to convince her to live with him, her father had begun construction on an extravagant house in the forest, knowing she loved nature. Just as the house was nearing completion, he died of a stress-induced stroke, leaving the house forever unfinished.

Kyle had a great deal of difficulty believing this story. First of all, who would willingly live with Carol, much less fight over her? And if her family could afford to build mansions, why did she look like an extremely tall starving twelve-year-old boy? She ate wolfishly whenever she hadn't "forgotten" to bring lunch money. Not to mention the crappy clothes. But truth be told, Kyle didn't give a damn where she had gotten the place, because the important thing was simply that they had it.

And it figured prominently in his plan.

…

When Tom woke up the next morning and stumbled torpidly into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of Owen cooking. For a moment he simply stood there, frozen by the strange sight, as Owen dexterously multitasked, adjusting the temperature of burners and flipping sizzling food over with a spatula. Tom had never seen him like this. Not in high school. He hadn't been morose or anything, but he wasn't really Mr. Bright-An'-Cheerful either. He'd always been the kind of guy you knew had seen a lot. So why would he lighten up after this whole shitstorm?

"Good morning, Tom," Owen greeted him, serving up pancakes.

"Guess it went well," grunted Tom. He'd never been a morning person. "Thanks." He accepted a plate of pancakes and began to eat hungrily.

"Yes. It went very well, in fact."

Tom looked directly at the other man as they both sat down. Very seriously, he said, "Look, Owen. Can I ask what you're trying to accomplish? If the cops didn't believe you before, what makes you think you can incriminate her now?"

"I don't want to incriminate her. I want to make her sorry," Owen said simply. Tom wasn't sure what he meant by that so he decided to let it go. "Why… why did she do it?" he finally asked.

"Long story."

"We got time."

Owen sighed. "She… she was betrayed."

Right then, Owen began to tell Tom the whole story. Everything the police had left out, all in meticulous detail. A ridiculous conspiracy that no one would believe.

Except Tom did believe it. Hell, how could he not? The way Owen told it, with the strange combination of pain and steel flowing like a river through the tale. It explained a lot, even if it left even more unanswered. Or at least unresolved.

It was almost enough to make Tom lose his appetite. Almost. Tearing off a formidable hunk of pancake and swallowing past the lump in his throat, Tom stated, "So now you're going to betray her."

Owen shook his head. "No. She doesn't trust me, so there's nothing to betray. She has no faith in me. Only her misconceptions. And I'm going to shatter those." He clenched his hands into fists, probably not even aware he was doing it.

Tom stole a glance out the window. A dark cloud once again settled over the town, erasing the sun's light. It was beginning to drizzle, tiny raindrops hitting the roof and leaves and pavement in disorderly drumbeats. "Shit weather again," Tom noted in a mumble.

…

Dodger was distracted. Not that anyone would ever have guessed, of course. Her daily routine required but a fraction of her concentration, after all. Shower and get dressed. Eat breakfast. Drive to the school. Simple. Hand out tests and worksheets. Give speeches she could come up with in seconds. Answer questions from students. Still simple.

Figure out what to do about Owen. Really not so simple.

Thus she was habitually going through her day, her thoughts sounding like a rip-off of a MasterCard commercial as she sat at her desk, twisting a lock of red hair around an index finger. Pencils scratched frantically on paper as her students struggled with a pop quiz – her way of getting a few moments to herself. No questions allowed. Just write it.

There was really nothing she could do legally. Or illegally, for that matter. Change the locks, watch her back. That didn't count for much. If she moved away, he'd probably still find her eventually. Besides, she wasn't about to let him control her life that way. If she moved it would just be forfeiting, and Dodger never gave up until she won. He wasn't about to best her at her own game.

Why had he kissed her? Dodger bit the tip of her tongue, tasting the warmth and iron of a small amount of blood as it spread around the inside of her mouth. It didn't make sense. She was a logical person, and she understood people. The two concepts might seem incompatible, but she had made it work up until this point, hadn't she? She understood reason. And she knew how unreasonable human nature could be.

Owen didn't love her. How could he? You couldn't love someone who betrayed you, stolen years of your life, used you and marred your future. Maybe it was just plain lust. He was a man, after all, and she was an attractive woman. Some people went for being mistreated. In a weird way, it was a turn-on for some people. Owen had never seemed like that to her; he was easily lead, got himself into situations, but he would never admit to himself that he wanted that enough to act on it outright, even if there was a subconscious drive. Besides, lust was a messy, unplanned thing. This had a premeditated feel to it.

The bell rang, jarring her from her thoughts and sending the students from the room. A pile of tests accumulated on her desk in the time span of seconds.

She began marking, absentmindedly looking the sheets over. She didn't usually mark during school hours like this. She wasn't a procrastinator, but students and teachers alike might become suspicious if she went over all the tests in the fifteen-minute morning break. They'd think she wasn't taking her job seriously – or that she was smarter than she let on. And those assumptions, especially the latter, could land her in a whole lot of complications.

But she was marking now. It was a way to direct a small portion of her thoughts away from the black hole of the Owen situation. Once she got through this class's stack of papers, she pulled another pile of tests out of a drawer in her desk and set to work on them. Unfortunately they were multiple choice, and she only had to look at the answer key once in order to know which circles got a checkmark for being filled in. It was too easy. Twelve done, another nineteen to –

Wait. She paused, red pen hovering in mid-air. She flipped back a few pages, to check something. Maybe she was being paranoid, but at least it gave her something to do. Besides, it wasn't paranoia if someone really was out to get you.

She found the test quickly, a single unremarkable sheet of paper festooned with red 'X's. She took out the answer key, rechecked it. She took out the original booklet of test questions and compared them.

This wasn't right. Something was definitely up.

She stood, gravitating towards the telephone on her wall, the telephone that was connected to every other telephone in the building. Slowly, almost reverently, she began dialing. She spoke briefly, then put the receiver down with a soft _click. _

Pretty soon, the voice of the secretary at the office boomed over the intercom: "Kyle McDermott, please go to your homeroom. Kyle McDermott, to your homeroom. Immediately."


	4. Slipping

Eye of the Storm

Chapter 4

Slipping

…

"I'm sure you knew this was inevitable."

"I was wondering when you'd come get me."

"Would you mind telling me what this is?"

"My test."

"I know that."

Kyle smiled embarrassedly. "I'm sorry. Of course you knew that. I… I didn't do very well, did I?"

"No." Dodger fixed him with a stern gaze. "In fact, you received a lower mark than you would have if you'd guessed on every question. Why is that, Kyle?"

The boy looked down at his feet. "I just… I wanted you to know that I didn't understand the subject. I was worried I'd just barely pass and then… you know, get a crappy final grade."

Dodger nodded, though she didn't believe his explanation for a moment. She wondered if he picked up on the suspicion in her expression; he seemed like he'd be aware of such subtle hints. "Would you like remedial lessons?"

"W-with you, you mean?"

"Yes, until you understand the subject."

"I'd like that very much professor. Thank you. Thank you."

"Go to your next class. I'll write a note to explain why you're late.

"Thank you." Dodger handed him the note and with the awkward bow of a teenage boy who watched too many late-night Japanese movies, Kyle was gone.

No, she didn't believe his explanation. Kyle was smarter than he let on, but he wasn't as sly as he thought. He was a hormone-driven teenager; she was attractive. Instant romantic dramedy fodder. Truth be told, she was flattered, though she knew better than to let it go to her head. Kyle liked her. If she had actually been in a romantic dramedy, she would have said something along the lines of, "You still got it, girl."

Dodger Allen's life was of an entirely different genre.

Normally she would have brushed Kyle's advances off quick and clean, but this was an… _abnormal _situation. She could use an ally, willing to sacrifice himself for her. Even if he was unwilling, he had a good chance of doing that anyway. Or, rather than an ally and more likely, in the event of something happening with Owen, she would have a scapegoat.

With only a school wall between himself and Dodger, Kyle couldn't contain a smile. He knew better than to think this would be easy – the execution of the plan. But it was, so far, going along perfectly. He played the smitten student role well. So many people modeled themselves on stereotypes; it was hardly a challenge to imitate. But Dodger… she wasn't a stereotype. She wasn't a stupid ditz. She was cunning. She had depth. And she'd fallen for his act. He had to admit, he was rather fond of her.

But she was dead wrong to think his fondness for her would distort his judgment in any way.

-.-.-.

Dodger was feeling a great deal more in control of herself as she left work later that day, taking a detour through the park. Though not sentimental, she did have an appreciation for beauty. Beautiful people, music, nature – all were soothing. If it wasn't for her own beauty, combined with the lust and vanity of others, her life would have taken a completely different, likely less interesting path.

Yes. She was in control.

The air smelled sweet and earthy, the scent carried by the gentle breeze that seemed to be all that remained of the storm. The vivid green grass between her feet was adorned with a smattering of water droplets, glimmering in the bright sunlight. Dodger ran a hand through her long red hair, feeling the fine strands slip through her fingers. For another moment, close to the surface, she was fine.

She was admiring a row of blue, white-capped mountains on the horizon when her eyes suddenly shifted focus to the foreground. For a split second, she was clueless as to what her body was trying to tell her. Then she saw him. His so-familiar profile brought her out of her trance.

As she called out his name, his head snapped up and they made eye contact, his eyes immediately going deer-in-the-headlights wide before he spun around and broke into a sprint.

She ran after him, her long legs easily falling into the quick, loping rhythm, entire body having long ago memorized the flow. Her breaths were measured, calculated and unstrained, and the bottoms of her runners gripped the ground as her feet adeptly found hold on the earth each time they came down. Even if she'd worn heels that day, she probably would still have outrun him – she'd always been the superior athlete.

The distance between the two sprinters quickly closed, and Dodger was finally able to make a grab at his elbow. Thrown off balance, at the same time his foot entangled itself in a tree root and he crashed down face-first on the wet grass beneath the sycamore trees, taking Dodger with him _(It's like a bad movie…)._

He pulled himself out from beneath her slight mass, and though his eyes darted in all directions, he made no move to escape. Sensible of him, thought Dodger. Though a bit late.

She looked around, saw a few people talking/walking/mingling off several meters away. The two of them were invisible, obstructed from view by the surrounding flora.

"Why did you run from me, Tom?" she asked evenly.

"I thought you were someone else. A girl. One I dated, I mean. Things ended badly." He stood, brushing dirt and mud off her jeans. Dodger also rose, leaning casually against a tree trunk.

"You've been talking to Owen, haven't you?"

"No!"

She allowed her expression to soften, become sympathetic. "Tom, he came to visit me. I… I don't think he's well. Jail's been hard on him."

"Okay, I saw him. But I really did think you were my ex, that's why I ran!"

Dodger decided it wasn't worth it to bother arguing. "Never mind. Is Owen staying with you?"

"No," said Tom, shaking his head. "He stopped by, but he's gone now."

Dodger carefully studied his face. Stony, unexpressive. He was telling the truth. Lies were always obvious with him, and like many guys he tried to avoid "doing" emotions.

"Okay," said Dodger. She exhaled. "Okay. Sorry."

"Jesus, Dodger." Tom brushed his hair back with his hand. He was still breathing hard. "What was that about?"

"Hey, chill," she said, trying to bring the tone back to the usual easy casualness between them. She really did find Tom quite likeable. He was direct, easy to read. She always knew all about him. It was reassuring. She winked at him. "You've been avoiding me lately. I wanted to know what was going on."

"Yeah… things have been crazy."

"Tell me about it," said Dodger with a small laugh, and they parted ways after making lunch plans. If Owen tried anything more, perhaps Tom would be closer to the information than she, and she could easily fish it out of him. Dodger smiled.

She was in control.

-.-.-.

"She knows."

Owen looked up from the brown bag of food Tom had brought back from a nearby Jewish deli, but he continued to rifle through it. "Dodger, you mean?" he asked. "What does she know?"

"About you. About us." Tom was pacing, his eyes darting around the room.

Owen had located sustenance and began eating, taking the time to swallow a mouthful of bagel and lox before replying, "Tom, you make it sound like a conspiracy."

"Well, isn't it?" Tom said, anger flashing in his wide eyes. "If it's true, and she finds out… screw it, I don't even know what I'm doing involved in all this!"

"You're not involved!" Owen stood up, somehow managing to look authoritative despite the bagel he was waving about. "Remember that. This is my problem, not yours. She can't blame any of this on you."

"Damn it, Owen! What exactly are you planning on doing to her?"

"I'm going to make her sorry," said Owen evenly.

"But what does that _mean?" _

"You'll know when it happens." Owen calmly sat down, going back to his lunch. "Now then," he said once he'd finished the bagel, "you say Dodger knows I'm here?"

"Uh huh. Well, I have the suspicion she knows, at least. I got this vibe from her, like she was trying to… I don't know, read my mind." Tom gave a shaky shrug. "It sounds so stupid to say it."

"It doesn't. I know what you mean."

"Just, when I was talking to her, it got so _weird. _You know, I really got the feeling she could have done it."_ 'It' being killing people. It was like she could do that without batting a perfectly made-up eye. _

"I suppose I should leave, then. Thank you for your hospitality." Owen stood once again as he spoke, and he made his way towards the door.

"Wait!" said Tom, surprised by the other man's abruptness. "Where are you going?"

Owen turned his neck slightly so that he spoke vaguely in the direction of the inquirer. "Why do you ask, Tom?" The corners of Owen's mouth turned up in a small smile. "It's none of your business. Not like we're co-conspirators or anything of the sort."

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do for you, in any case."

"Trust me; if anything comes up, you'll know."

And Owen was gone as suddenly and as enigmatically as he'd appeared.

-.-.-.

Dodger arranged with Kyle to meet after school each weekday for approximately an hour. These meeting were held in her classroom, when most of the staff had already left the building. "I think I'm starting to understand," said Kyle one day, a few weeks into their lessons.

"The subject, you mean?" said Dodger. She was scrawling notes on the blackboard, causing a light snowfall of white chalk dust to fall at her feet.

"Yes, that too." Kyle, standing at Dodger's side, leaned in towards her, gently touching her hand as he took the chalk,

It wasn't clear who initiated it, but suddenly their mouths were touching, and they were kissing, hard. It was a long time before Dodger was able to process what was happening and pull out; but it was already far too late,

Kyle smiled before calmly turning to the chalkboard and, in a few deft strokes, completing Dodger's unfinished sentence. "By the way," he said, "I'm having a party this weekend. You're invited. Will you be there?"

"Yeah," said Dodger. There was nothing else she could say. She'd let it go too far. She was barely aware as Kyle gathered up his books and backpack and left the room without looking back,

She could get out of this. She knew she had gotten out of worse before. He wouldn't be able to stop thinking about her now. She could use him against Owen. Somehow. Had she established anything besides that vague initiative?

She could confuse Kyle. Keep him guessing. Have him defend her against Owen when she tracked him down. But if he found her first? That didn't change anything, she could keep Kyle close by as much as she had to. Owen wasn't as strong (no, that wasn't the word, but she couldn't stop her thoughts to find the right one) as her – he'd get emotional. Careless. Leave hints. And Kyle would be there when he finally appeared.

That was why she had done it.

She sank down to her knees, the cold of the checkerboard tiles on the floor making her shake as they touched her legs. She put her forehead against the wood of the desk and started to cry. If any staff members had stayed late and somehow seen her misconduct, they might pity her and stay silent, seeing what she was going through. An observer might even think love was somehow, mysteriously involved. And if Kyle was somewhere outside, watching her, seeing her, he'd feel guilty. Feel he owed her. He'd be loyal.

Screw it, she was making this up as she went along. She had no idea what had happened or what would happen now.

She only knew she would have to be careful.

Her vision obscured by tears, she never bothered to look up at the blackboard. Even if she had, her brain might not have been able to sort the symbols into any logical sequence.

Behind her, in her own neat, confident script, the words, **"Philophobia, from the Latin prefix "Philo-" and the word "Phobos" means"** stood out stark white against their black background.

In curly, elegantly thought-out letters, Kyle had concluded the sentence with _"fear of love." _

The period at the end made it all look so final, but like the rest of the sentence, it was wiped away early the next morning by the school custodian and a bucket of soapy water.

-.-.-.

"Yo Carol! Catch!" On reflex, the teenage girl made the assumption it was Erik calling her, and she looked up just in time to be hit in the face with a raw egg.

She stood wide-eyed and silent as she watched the boys bike away, laughing loudly as their bikes swooshed and clanged as they cut through the air, chains, wheels, and spokes spinning with mechanical enthusiasm. "Damn queer!" one cyclist shouted, and one – she couldn't tell if it was the same guy – raised a middle finger. None of them looked back at her.

She didn't bother to defend herself with a reply. She could have screamed, _"I'm not queer!" _but there would be no use to it. Besides, it was a lie. She knew she was, had known for years, that she was totally queer.

Just not in the way they meant.

Carol wiped as much of the thick, translucent liquid off herself as she could, spitting out the bitter globs that had found their way into her mouth.

She stared down at the shattered eggshell at her feet, laying there like abstract art, surrounded by a pool of spattered liquid. She resumed walking.

She hated the people at her school. She was used to dealing with this kind of thing, nearly every day. The boys were actually not as bad as the girls – at least the former were direct. They didn't go around behind her back, starting rumors and throwing her books in the toilette or telling the counselor she was creepy and morbid and probably mentally ill. At least, they didn't do that as far as she knew.

She hovered somewhere between the worlds of male and female, welcome in neither and unprotected by both. Needless to say, it didn't go over well at school.

So many times she'd had the urge to burn that hated place to the ground.

By the time she stopped home to shower and change, the egg had coagulated in her hair, on her clothes, even on her eyelashes. The white and yellow goop stuck out hideously on her all the black.

She was feeling a great deal cleaner once she'd washed, and she headed out to meet Erik. Okay, snuck out to meet Erik. Her mother was rather paranoid about her leaving the house, especially when it came to That Strange Boy. She pronounced the phrase like a proper name. Somehow, her mother had gotten it into her head that Erik was the reason for her daughter's oddness. She was the type of woman who never allowed herself to consider that her own flesh and blood could ever be simply, unaccountably _different._

Then again, her mother was asleep, as she was most of the time these days.

Before she left, Carol had opened the door to the fridge, but no food had magically appeared. She made a mental note to go to the bank and withdraw the limited funds in her account to buy groceries after she was done at the forest house.

"Hey!" she called out once she was there, spotting Erik on the roof. He was hammering, the beat steady and loud as it traveled through the trees. He grinned at her, mouth full of silver nails. A red halo leaked around the edges if his silhouette in the light of the setting sun, shining around his head like a halo.

"Nice to see you're finally here." He grunted as he swung down from the roof by means of one of the many tall trees around the place.

"Yeah. Daniel and his friends held me up."

"Are you all right?" His smile had vanished. It was painful to see him serious – Carol hated when he worried about her.

"I'm fine," she said. She released a long breath. "I just can't believe Kyle invited those ass-wipes to the party."

"Well," said Erik, a hand on his forehead as he blocked out the bright sun and stood back to survey the roof, like he was saluting his own work, "he must have a good reason. Kyle's a smart guy. Maybe Daniel will be a decoy."

Carol had to grin. The idea of Daniel as live bait for a murderer _was _appealing. "He hates me, you know."

Erik looked at her oddly. "Of course I know that. I thought we'd established that in fifth grade when he put on a show for the neighborhood of him feeding his dog your skateboard."

"Not Daniel. Kyle."

"He does not hate you."

"Have you seen the way he looks at me?" Carol exclaimed.

"Look, he would have told me if he didn't like you. He tells me these things."

"Did he tell you what exactly he's planning to do with a serial killer at my house?"

"She's not a serial killer."

"Yes, she is. She killed more than one person."

"But she didn't have a signature to her crimes."

"Dude, just answer my question."

Erik picked up a rock and threw it hard and far into the forest before he said, "Okay, he told me some things. But I really don't know why he'd invite Daniel."

"What exactly do you know?" Carol was unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. The party was this weekend, but she'd been anticipating it for what felt like forever. Any scrap of information felt like an early birthday present, like her father used to send her back when she was a kid, when she believed he would come rescue her from her life.

"Only what I have to do," said Erik.

"Just tell me already!"

"Okay. Inside."

Carol couldn't help the leap her insides did when he opened the door for her. As the two teenagers sat on the dark, mismatched furniture of the place that felt like hers, even if the law would say otherwise, Erik told Carol everything he knew and she listened with rapt attention as he explained how he fit into all this.

"Wow," she said when he had finished. "That's… intense, man. Do you think you can actually go through with this?"

"I have to, don't I?" said Erik, and Carol thought she detected a note of glumness in his voice.

She didn't answer. She couldn't help but wonder if she too had a place in this plan, and whether she would even know if she did.


	5. Falling

Hello, and thank you for reading this story. After two years since I last worked on it, I have felt the inspiration to come back to it. I would like to thank -xXxBlonde ambitionxXx-, who submitted a review which reminded me that this story existed. I have now decided to finish this story. There will be a few more chapters, probably around three to five, which shall be posted quite shortly if all goes according to plan. Please review, as I would very much appreciate it and they encourage me to write faster.

I think I should mention that the opinions expressed by characters are not necessarily my own. Reading over this, many of the things Kyle thought about Carol were extremely offensive and disturbing. They were meant to be, as Kyle is not a good person, but I am worried I went too far. So if anyone was bothered, I am truly sorry.

Eye of the Storm  
Chapter Five  
Falling

Dodger knew better than to try to evade the party. She could admit to herself that she had made a severe mistake – thrown off by all the commotion with Owen, she had acted carelessly and allowed Kyle to have power over her.

If he told anyone what had happened between them, she would be out of a job at the least. She was a good judge of what people would believe, and Kyle's story was much more convincing than any lie she could come up with. Private lessons. After hours. Like _that_ didn't sound suspicious. Even if he admitted to initiating it, she hadn't resisted. He could even claim she had led him on.

_Had _she led him on? Dodger thought about it during the series of long bus rides, listening to the clink of small change as people boarded, the rattle of gravel hurtled against the bus by wind.

It was not a pleasant topic to think about, but Dodger knew the most dangerous lies were the ones people told themselves. And she was getting old. Older. She was only in her late twenties, but most of the people she had grown up with seemed to suddenly be married. She had recently run into a woman at the supermarket whom she had gone to high school with, and who had informed Dodger she was in the process of working through her second divorce.

Dodger didn't need anybody. In fact, a long-term relationship sounded like a pain. Having to spend so much time around one person, especially when most people were moronic. Having to learn all their flaws, every irritating detail. Having to expose her _own_ irritating details to them. She didn't like that, the need to either truly trust or to fake it.

She didn't need it.

But it would have been nice if someone had offered. She had to wonder what was the problem, that no one even seemed to be even trying to get close to her as of late. She knew that many of her friends from high school were in the same situation. Tom, for example. But he was... different, wasn't he? He had never been the same since the murders, suddenly drawing inward and becoming much more somber. She couldn't be like that. One thing she could not stand the thought of being was obviously damaged.

-/-/-

Flashback

To say it wasn't a very good party was like saying Atlantis was a bit damp, or that Darly, the woman he'd asked to be his plus-one, was sorta starting to irritate him. This party was shit. Not _the _shit, just shit. "Retro" music played over the crummy speakers, laced with static whenever it hit certain notes, the kind of songs that were considered classic even though Tom had to wonder whether anyone liked them when they first came out. The only thing he could find of value in the blare was that it managed to drown out some of the conversation.

He marched through the buffet line, determinedly fixated on his food and the number of minutes until it would be acceptable to leave. As he returned to his table, he briefly debated whether he could take one of the empty seats that wasn't beside Darly without pissing her off and causing a racket, and concluded that he couldn't. As he sat down beside her, she promptly threw her arms around him and squealed "Tommy!"

"Hey," said Tom, pretending to be fascinated by his napkin. The fabric was embroidered with the words _"WESTLAKE PREPARATORY, FIVE YEAR REUNION" _in silver thread.

Darly resumed a conversation with a woman sitting to her left, the date of a guy Tom remembered as being named Jack or Jeff or something. He was also sitting with them, clad in a black suit and red tie, looking politely disinterested. The picture of success, and, though he'd been polite to Tom, Tom couldn't help the twinge of dislike he felt whenever he looked at the other man.

Their table was also populated by a black-haired, olive-skinned woman in a purple dress, who was on her way to getting some sort of complicated university degree (Tom couldn't remember what she was studying – when he asked it had been a long word he hadn't understood), a frazzled blond woman named Joan, her frazzled husband Steve, Joan and Steve's two extremely emotional infants (who were currently screaming gibberish at each other as they dueled over a soda cracker), and Randall.

When Randall had shown up, Tom had experienced a wave of... triumph? relief? upon seeing the other man was alone. This was followed by a surge of embarrassment at having such a selfish thought. _Grow up, Tom. _He was too old for the teenage desire to outdo his friends in their romantic exploits.

He awkwardly put his arm around Darly, who looked surprised but pleased at the gesture and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was warm, and it felt good to have her there. Yes, she wasn't perfect, but neither was he. Tom felt like he was pretty much as imperfect as a person could get and still manage to function in a relatively normal manner.

He had met Darly at work – they were both checkoutpeople at the supermarket. It wasn't what Tom had pictured himself doing, but he hadn't really pictured himself doing anything. His father had wanted him to be an engineer, and Tom had tried that. He'd enrolled in the classes. But as the days went by, he found himself more and more bored with it, until he skipped more days than he went. Now that he was living on his own, far from his family, he found no drive to learn the subject. He'd switched to distance learning, but hadn't completed the assignments or written enough tests to get credits. His part time job became full time, and the days passed in a lazy haze.

He didn't know very much about Darly. She managed to talk a lot and yet say very little. They watched movies together sometimes, and she was always kind to him. If he was sick from work she would visit his house to make sure he was okay. They went for walks and picnics sometimes, and she would hold his hand and smile up at him with such honest happiness that in those moments he couldn't help but like her quite a lot.

When she was silent like that, she somehow managed to be so much more expressive and real than when she was talking, as usual. She went on and on about soap operas and about her fish, and about things that she found funny but Tom didn't even find interesting. She wore too much sparkly makeup and too many pink hair clips, and Tom always got the impression she was trying to appear younger than she was. He didn't have a number for her age, but she had some crows' feet and her forehead was creased.

Darly was trying to hide her age. Tom was trying to hide his aloneness. All these polite people were trying to hide the fact that they were competing over who was more successful, and all this pleasant chatter was just an attempt at hiding that barely anyone here had kept in touch. Nothing at this party was real. Maybe that was fitting for a high school reunion after all.

He drained his glass as someone made a speech he didn't listen to. Afterwards, Darly gave an account of all the fascinating things everyone else at the table had been up to, which was made bearable only by the two more glasses of alcohol Tom consumed. He noticed Randall didn't seem to be engaged in the conversation much either, and felt a bit better.

A flash of red caught his eye, and Tom excused himself, giving Darly a kiss in the hopes it would dissuade her from following him. It did, and she went back to chattering with the rest of the table about Tom's life. As Tom walked away, he caught the word "fascinating" in her voice and snorted. It was hard to think of anyone with a less fascinating life.

He followed the red sheen. "Dodger, yo," he said. Dodger was wearing a blue dress and dangly silver earrings shaped like feathers, which were bobbing along as she talked to a man in a dress shirt.

"Hi Tom!" she said warmly. "You remember Jonah, right?"

"Hey," said Tom, waving at the man, who grabbed his hand and shook it.

"So what have you been up to?" said Jonah, and Tom wondered if he was imagining the pompous tone in his voice.

"Oh, you know, the usual stuff," said Tom.

"School?" said the man, and Tom suddenly felt like a teenager talking to an adult.

"You know it," said Tom with a giant fake-ass grin.

The man launched into a description of his own "fascinating" life, and Tom felt his eyes glazing over. When Dodger excused herself to go talk to someone else she'd seen, Tom followed her.

"How do you stand it?" he said in an undertone.

"Stand what?" said Dodger.

"Everyone here is so... so _fake." _

She laughed. "They were the same five years ago. Did you really expect them to change?"

He thought he saw something in her eyes for a moment. Like for one split-second she could have started to cry. But then it was gone, and he pushed away the thought. This was _Dodger _he was talking to. One of the strongest people he knew. _He _was probably more likely to burst into tears than she was.

"Are you okay?" he asked, before he could stop himself. It was the alcohol: goodbye impulse control.

"Fine," said Dodger, her voice a bit high but that was probably due to confusion at his question. "So, who's that girl you came with?"

"Darly. I work with her."

"Is she always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"You know you can do better, right?"

He was silent.

"Sorry," said Dodger. "I wouldn't know what to say to that, either."

"So..." said Tom, "did you come with someone?" Dodger jabbed a thumb in the direction of one of the suits. "Oh," said Tom. "He looks... cool."

"Yeah. Between you and me, he's one of the most excruciatingly uninteresting people I've ever met." She sighed. "You can probably tell I've been drinking."

"So have I," said Tom.

"You want to go outside for some air? Come back in when we're sober?"

"Will this party be tolerable then?"

"No, but it will be over."

He followed her into the night. The parking lot was quiet and empty of people. Filtered though the walls, the soft thump of music was almost pleasant. Overhead, the moon and stars were bright.

They walked, Dodger's high heels clicking on the pavement, the slightly-too-long ends of Tom's pants scraping on the ground. It did feel better out here. Clearer.

"So how did you meet..." Tom tried to remember the man's name and couldn't recall Dodger mentioning it, "that guy?"

"A coworker set us up. I guess she thought I was really boring." Dodger laughed quietly. "Or maybe she just didn't like me much."

They were in a park area now. The river flowing beside them was shiny and black. Tom kicked a rock into it and listened to the satisfying splash. The rush of water was calming.

They walked in silence for a while.

"You're not, you know," said Tom suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Boring. You're not."

"That's sweet of you."

And then they were quiet again.

Tom had expected something to happen. It was the right night for it, the right feeling. They were both intoxicated. But nothing happened. At least, nothing he could explain. It was quiet, and comfortable, and he was... _happy. _But when they got back to the party, which felt like years later, like worlds later, he wasn't lying when he told Darly that nothing beyond friendly interactions had happened between him and Dodger.

It felt strange when he went back into the school, too bright and warm and loud. Darly had approached him and stiffly announced they were to go back to the car.

"She's just a friend," Tom heard himself say. "We went out for some air."

Darly didn't respond. She sat down in the passenger seat.

"You have no right to be angry!" said Tom.

"Drive," said Darly.

He drove.

"Drop me off at my place, please," said Darly.

"Sure," said Tom. "Listen, why are you so ups-"

"I'm not upset," said Darly. But to Tom's horror, she started to cry, eyeliner trailing blackly down her face.

"Do you... want anything?" said Tom, each word so uncomfortable it was like the syllables had turned into bricks.

"Just time," said Darly. Her voice was so different from usual. Plain. Broken.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." She paused. "I'm mad at myself."

"What?"

"I let myself..." she hiccoughed. "Hope. Ridiculously. I wanted to be the one that helped you, that made you happy. But... this distance is always going to be here, isn't it?"

Tom wasn't sure what to say. If he asked "What distance?" it would be a lie, to pretend he didn't feel it too. But if he said "Yeah" it would probably make her cry more.

So he said nothing.

He dropped her off and then returned to his own house, where he fell asleep to an awful movie and then showed up late for work the next day.

-/-/-

The bus came to a halt at a station in the town where Kyle used to attend school, and Dodger heard the rush of air and felt the vehicle deflate a bit as the doors opened. She stepped off and walked towards the red brick building ahead.

The mouse brown hair of her wig fluttered around in the wind, and she absently patted it down. Once inside the school, she quickly examined herself in the bathroom mirror and once again came to the conclusion that her disguise was satisfactory.

She knocked on the door of the guidance office, and was greeted by a middle-aged woman with cropped blond hair. "Ah, you must be Ms. Nithiska," said the woman, unaware that the real Bethany Nithiska was currently unconscious, after Dodger had followed her home and attacked her from behind with a chloroform-soaked rag, leaving her on her couch where, hopefully, Bethany Nithiska would assume she had simply fallen asleep after a hard day's work as guidance councellor.

"Yes," said Dodger. "And are you Mrs. Hopson?"

"I am she. Do come in."

As Dodger sat down in her office, Mrs. Hopson said, "And as I understand it, you are here regarding Kyle McDermott?"

"Yes," said Dodger.

"I hope you can see he is a good student."

Hopson looked slightly worried. Dodger reassured her, "Yes, he definitely is. But he seems somewhat distracted, and I think I could better help him if I knew the reason why he was transferred."

"It was not due to any wrong he committed," said Hopson.

"I'm sure it wasn't," said Dodger.

"He helped the school, in fact. He happened upon a plot by another boy to stage an... an attack upon the student body. Kyle reported it and the other boy was investigated and expelled. Somehow, Kyle's name was leaked as the one who had reported the boy, and as the boy had a large and rather threatening group of friends, it was decided it would be in the interest of Kyle's own safety to be transferred to another school."

Dodger nodded somberly.

Mrs. Hopson said, "If you would like, I can give you the name of the boy and the psychiatrist he was sent to. They may be able to provide more insight into the occurrence, as I only dealt with Kyle, who was, understandably, quite upset at the time."

The blond woman wrote down two names on a piece of paper and handed them to Dodger.

"Thank you," said Dodger. One of the names sounded familiar, and yet she couldn't place where she had heard it before.


	6. Connecting

**A/N:** Sorry this is not the most exciting chapter. The next ones are going to make up for it, I promise.

Eye of the Storm  
Chapter Six  
Connecting

"It's important you understand, Darren isn't a bad kid," Marianna said to the young woman seated at the other end of her polished wooden desk.

This wasn't where Marianna saw her patients. She did her therapy in the room out front, a spacious, comfortable one, windows positioned so as to always allow as much clear, bright light as possible to enter. This section of her office was strictly for paperwork and meetings of a less personal nature.

"His situation," Marianna continued, "has been difficult lately."

"So I've heard," said the visitor with a nod. She was young, with shoulder-length brown hair and dressed in a tan pantsuit. She had introduced herself as Brienna James, guidance counselor at a new alternative school Marianna hadn't heard of before. To Doctor Marianna Hampton, Brienna James came across as serious and focused.

"It will be good for him to go back to school," said Marianna. "He's not the type to be content with isolation."

"Students like him are precisely why Westbough Academy was set up," said Ms. James. "His grades were high before he was expelled, correct?"

"Yes. His teachers agree that, academically speaking, he was above average."

"And you can report that his behavior has stabilized?" When Marianna didn't answer, the other woman said, "Is something wrong?"

"I need a moment to answer your question about Darren," said Marianna, looking down at her hands as she spoke. "In terms of behavior, he hasn't been lashing out. But on an emotional level... he's still deeply upset. I don't intend to dissuade you from allowing him into your school – I think it would be beneficial to him to be around others his own age who might... understand. But you should know that he is unhappy at this point. He refuses to talk about what happened." She paused. "I trust you know the details of the incident?"

"To a general degree," said Ms. James.

"You should know that he could have reduced his sentence. The files found on his computer had no indication that he intended to use them. If he had said they were simply an... experiment, he would likely have been only suspended. Even if he confessed that he intended to put the plan to use, I imagine he would have been sent to counseling and given a leave of absence rather than outright expelled. It was his refusal to confirm nor deny what he was being accused of which caused the authorities at his school the greatest distress."

"Why would he have received such a minor penalty if he had been planning to use them?" Brienna was clearly interested, to the point that her professional manner began to slip. There was something odd about her eagerness, Marianna thought. Something odd about her in general, perhaps, but it was hard to know exactly what was off. She found herself thinking how much she would have liked to be in the outer room, asking Brienna questions and figuring out what was going on in her mind.

"Honestly, I do not believe he would have been able to go through with it," said Marianna, "and I think his teachers, as well as anyone who knew him, would have to agree. Various tests have been conducted, of course, and they clearly show that he is not a psychopath, nor suffering any other severe mental imbalances. Simply from talking to him, I cannot imagine he could be the type to injure or kill one person. To say that he would do such a think to many... the thought of it is outright bizarre."

-/-/-

After leaving Doctor Marianna Hampton's office, Dodger considered changing her disguise again. This was risky, what she was doing – taking on the identity of someone who, as far as she knew, had never existed. If she been able to plan this in advance, she would have disguised herself as someone who had been alive at one point or another, probably someone around her age who had died prematurely on some other part of the globe. But there wasn't time for research, so she improvised.

Continuing to insist she was Bethany Nithiska was more risky, as the real Nithiska would be waking up soon, and, if Dodger continued to use her identity, might cause some commotion by being in two places at once.

Dodger decided that, for now, it was best to remain as Brienna James. Hampton seemed like the type of woman who would check up with the boy to see what had happened during his meeting with the new guidance counselor.

From what Hampton had said, talking to Darren could prove quite interesting. It wasn't Darren she intended to find out about, but rather Kyle. How had Kyle found out about Darren's plan, his computer files documenting his intent to _injure or kill many_?And yet, Darren was the kind of person who had too many inhibitions to go through with it. Dodger had him pegged as an outcast, so why would social, outgoing Kyle know him?

All she knew was that Kyle was becoming more and more interesting.

When she arrived outside Darren's house, she saw the lights were on inside. Loud music was pulsing through the walls, thrashing guitars and a heavy drumbeat. The singer screamed indecipherably.

She rang the bell to no response, then knocked. Then rang again.

"Darren! Get the door!" shouted a male voice. The music abruptly stopped. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

"What?" said an irritated teenage voice as the door opened inward. A short, skinny boy with a lot of facial piercings appeared in the doorway, glaring at her behind a fringe of blue and grey hair. The glare had the opposite of the effect he was probably going for, and made him look even smaller and younger than he would have otherwise. Despite the piercings, it was hard to believe he was a high school student. He looked fourteen at most.

"Are you Darren?" said Dodger. The boy nodded. "My name is Ms. James. I am a guidance counselor at a new school. We were wondering if you would be interested in attending."

She got the impression Darren was resisting a powerful urge to slam the door in her face then and there. "Yeah," he said sarcastically, "right. Your school wants me."

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Do you think I'm an _idiot? _When you say 'school', you're talking about juvie, right? Or maybe the funny farm?"

"Just a school," said Dodger softly.

"Look," said Darren, "I know when I'm being lied to. After what I did, no school is going to want me. I've accepted that. Now let me be."

"Doctor Hampton recommended you."

At the name of his therapist, Darren's glower vanished. He glanced behind him, then said to Dodger, "Okay. I'll talk to you. But can we walk?"

-/-/-

Darren walked in silence with the woman for two blocks before saying anything. Then he blurted, "I was considering dropping out. Before they expelled me, I mean."

"How come?" said Ms. James.

"I'm guessing you talked to my teachers. Good grades, right? Shit load of good that does to make high school more tolerable."

- Darren looked down at the bottle of pills in his hand, the white plastic unpleasantly bright in the harsh lights of the guys' washroom. He unscrewed the cap and poured several small, blue pills into his palm. Darren took a deep breath, then threw his head back and dropped the pills into his mouth.

_It was hard to swallow past the lump that had appeared in his throat. He twisted the tap and stuck his head under, gulping down water and pills. He emerged, throat sore, gasping for breath. He poured more pills from the bottle. Repeated the process until the container was empty, then went into a stall, locked the door and waited to die. – _

"I got to a point where I hadn't planned anything past that. And then... I just wasn't sure what to do with my life."

- His insides were on fire. He was shaking, and cold sweat soaked his clothes. He couldn't breath, couldn't stand. He slumped down from his sitting position, sprawled on the floor like a broken toy. Powerless to escape as images raced through his mind.

_The pixels of his computer screen alight with the school test database he had been hacking. The tests he'd printed off, solved. Gavin Trent's grin as Darren handed them over. Proud slaps on the back, invitations to parties, smiles from the Gavin and his friends. Darren's friends, he thought. _

_The test that had ruined everything. The one that landed on his desk and he gaped at in horror, every question altered from the one online. A trap, to catch the cheaters. _

_Everyone angry at him, glaring at him. Slaps on the back now hard enough to bruise. A barrage of jokes with Darren as the punchline. _

_Gavin offering him a chance to redeem himself. Telling him to hack the diploma exam, the most important, government-designed one, make sure all of them passed their high school courses. Darren's refusal and the way Gavin's face had suddenly twisted, the way he shoved Darren into the wall behind him without any warning, so that Darren let out a cry of surprise and pain and Gavin and his friends roared with laughter. _

_The shoves and trips that appeared suddenly from all direction whenever he walked down the hall. The jeers and whispers. Words appearing on his desk overnight, that he scrubbed off in the hopes no one would see them. The day when, after school, he had been grabbed, dragged through the halls and shoved into a locker. He watched through the thin slots as hands fumbled with the lock, heard it click shut and clank against the metal, heard the sounds of his own hyperventilation and off departing footsteps and fading laughter. _

_The fight with his brother the next day, when Darren had finally been let free by the boy who imprisoned him, and refused to say where he'd been all night. _

_Darren's vision faded. Everything swarmed with black sand, like malfunctioning pixels. –_

"Everything I had been counting on wasn't there anymore. I had nothing."

- A voice.

"_Hey, are you okay? Darren? Is that you?"_

_A face looking under. He thought he recognized the person. Kyle Something. He was popular. But Darren couldn't be sure it was him. Couldn't be sure it was anyone. Maybe a hallucination, he thought dimly. Darren felt like he was disintegrating, getting smaller. Even the pain was subsiding. _

"_I'm coming in."_

_Kyle clambered over the door. _

"_What did you take?"_

_Darren tilted his head towards the bottle. _

"_You're dehydrated. Just a second."_

_Kyle unlocked the door, walked out. Darren felt profoundly lonely._

_And then Kyle returned. Hands cupped full of water. _

"_Drink."_

_He did. It felt like life flowing back into him. _

_Kyle brought him more water, and more. Darren's vision started to return, and he started to be able to feel his body again. _

"_Are you strong enough to stand now?"_

"_Yeah," said Darren. His voice sounded awful, like a toad's croak. He got to his feet, Kyle helping him. They walked over to the tap. Kyle supported him as he drank more and more. _

"_You should eat something," said Kyle. "It will slow down the rate at which your body absorbs the medication. It will make it so you can handle it. Come to my house."_

_They left the school. It was spring but it was cold, the white of the sunlight reminding Darren of ice. _

"_My friend is sick, "Kyle explained to the bus driver, and Darren felt his heart explode. _Friend. _ –_

"And then I met this guy, Kyle McDermott. And everything changed."

-/-/-

In the next chapter: Dodger is recognized. Tom begins to investigate what exactly is going on. Where is Owen, and how does he keep getting into Dodger's house?


	7. Emptying

Eye of the Storm  
Chapter 7  
Emptying

-/-/-

"Kyle was.... I thought he was great, okay?" said Darren, as though t was a challenge. Dodger nodded. "He was the first person who was actually there for me, you know? Well, besides my brother."

"How did you two meet?" asked Dodger.

"He, um, helped me out of a bad situation." Darren paused, then added quickly, " He was always doing that, getting me out of trouble. No one beat me up anymore after he started hanging out with me."

"What did he do to change things?"

"He just... he was Kyle. You'd understand if you met him. Hell, even Gavin – the asshat who started the kick-around-Darren club – was scared of him. I mean –" Darren looked puzzled by his own terminology – "...scared, that's not the right word. They respected him, I meant. Everyone liked Kyle." He looked as though he was going to say more, then stopped.

"So," said Dodger, "what happened?"

"You know, I really don't think I need to say any more. You probably know all about how everything got messed up."

"I'd like to hear your side of it."

"My side doesn't matter! I'm a freak, I was expelled, and people are going to believe whatever they want!" He looked away from Dodger, but continued to walk beside her.

She touched his shoulder. "Have you tried changing their minds?"

"Look at me. Blue hair, face full of metal, no street smarts and a weak personality – no one would be surprised if I just dropped off the map. Maybe it would be better that way. No one would miss me."

"What about your brother?"

"He's... I don't need to disappoint him anymore. I'm an embarrassment as a brother."

"He said that?"

"No, but I know it's true. He took me in because I ran away from our parents, but all I really did was go from being dependent on them to dependent on him. I hate that." He let out a long breath. "How great would that be, to not need anyone, to be perfectly well-off as a single unit?"

"Most people aren't like that."

"Kyle was."

"Let's turn around," said Dodger. "It's starting to get dark." She didn't think this would take much longer. "Do you still keep in touch with Kyle?"

"No."

Dodger was silent, knowing he would say more.

Several minutes later, he did. "I can't. It's over between us – he turned me in."

"How do you know?"

"He told me. He told everyone."

"Are you angry with him?"

"No." He looked her in the eye. "No, I don't feel anything. Completely fucking blank." He laughed and turned away again. "I just realized it, that's what this is. I have felt nothing since he betrayed me. It's like I'm dead."

"I'm sure you must care –"

"No, I don't."

"- about something."

"Believe me, I wish I did."

"If you didn't care," said Dodger, as gently as she could, "why did you refuse to talk about what happened?"

"Because... because it was stupid, I guess."

"Will you talk about it now?"

He hesitated. Shrugged as though trying to shake off something unpleasant. "Sure. Why not? Spill the entire, idiotic story and lie empty at you semi-sensible shoes." He paused, "I like computers. It's something Kyle and I had in common. I was mostly into games and.... programming. I made this mod – this, um, edit of a game. It was supposed to, like, look like... like our school. And I cast, um, Gavin and his friends as the enemies, I made characters that looked like them, and I... fought them."

"How did you fight them?"

"It was a shooting game."

"And your teachers saw it and thought it was some sort of plan?"

"Yeah. Well, it was pretty realistic and stuff, I had the security systems in the game set up like at school, I knew how to disable them – but it was just stress-relief! The game's probably what stopped me from actually... nevermind."

"And then what happened with Kyle?"

"He hacked into my computer one day at my house. I went to get a drink and came back to my room to find he was looking at my game. He said... he said I was going too far, and that he was reporting me for my own good. And then he left." Darren pressed a hand to his forehead. "It didn't make sense, that was the main thing that got to me."

"How come?"

"His games were way more realistic. He was the one who taught me how to program in the security systems, how to disable them... showed me how to modify the faces so they looked like real people. He made a really famous, popular mod. It's modeled after a real series of murders. You can find it online, it's called Wolf Mod."

Dodger froze. "Wolf Mod," she repeated.

"Yeah, you know the Westlake Prep murders? Well, it was a long time ago, but it's still pretty famous. It's based on those. My brother was – hey, Ms. James? Are you okay?"

"Yes," lied Dodger, forcing herself to walk. She knew the blood had drained from her face, she felt like running, or shouting, or standing very still, becoming a statue and standing forever until acid rain tore her apart. "I just remembered something I have to do, I had better be getting home." Thankfully, Darren's house was in view.

"Oh. Okay. It was, um, nice talking to you."

"Yes, thank you for talking to me. It was very helpful."

"Well... that's good."

Darren ascended the path to his house, and the front door opened. A person looked out, a man Dodger's age with as many piercings as Darren but stronger features and dark hair.

Dodger quickly turned away, her heart skipping like a stuck record. Walked to her car as calmly as she could, conscious of her movements, trying to seem like anyone but herself.

-/-/-

"Who was that?" said Randall.

"Some guidance councilor," shrugged his younger brother.

"What was her name?" Urgency burned in his voice, clearly startling Darren.

"Um, I think she said it was Ms. James."

"I have to make a phone call," said Randall.

"Okay," said Darren, confused.

A moment later, Randall was flipping through a dog-eared notebook he hadn't used in years and yet still kept in easy reach. The name he was looking for caught his eye, and he punched the number he'd scrawled underneath into his phone.

Three rings later, a voice on the other end said, "Hello?"

"Hi Tom. It's Randall."

"Oh, Um, hey, what's up?"

"I know we haven't talked in ages but, um, I have a question."

"Okay."

"Is Dodger a guidance counselor?

"What? No, she's a teacher. High school."

"She told me brother she was a guidance counselor."

"Are you sure it was her?"

"Yeah. She looked worried about something, and people are... you know, pretty recognizable when they're showing emotion like that."

"Okay," said Tom, "I understand what you mean."

His response surprised Randall, who added, "And she had brown hair."

"She must have been wearing a wig."

"Why is she doing this?"

"I don't know," said Tom. "But I'm going to find out what the hell is going on."

-/-/-

As Tom hung up the phone, he knew what he had to do – Owen would have some idea what was going on, he must be involved in it somehow. The problem was, Owen had given no clues as to where he had gone, and Tom knew the other man didn't have a cell phone. "I like to be able to be away from everything, sometimes," Owen had explained.

Well, he'd certainly got away.

Tom looked out the window and saw the weather was decent. The storm clouds seemed to be blowing out, and the setting sun streaked the blue sky with amber.

He decided to go for a drive.

It had been a while since he'd really gone out, taken the car and just _moved, _beyond his usual chores of work, home, grocery story. There was so much out there, and as he felt the power of the vehicle under his control, the steering wheel humming under his hands, he was tempted several times to get on the highway, get out of town, go somewhere crazy. Leave this place and everything he owned behind.

He resisted it – he'd gotten good at crushing those feelings.

He went into every hotel in the town, which only amounted to three. And at each of them, the secretaries shook their head, saying no one by that name had checked in. Owen was either out of town, using an alias, or had done something else entirely.

Tom sensed that Owen wouldn't leave. He'd come here to do something, _he wanted Dodger to be sorry for what she'd done, _and he hadn't accomplished that yet. Owen wouldn't be using a fake name, either – he wasn't sure how he knew this, but Tom was sure Owen wouldn't lie.

That only left the last option, didn't it? Oh balls.

He walked around a bit, saw, predictably, no indication of Owen, then got back in his car and headed for home. _What an amazingly meaningful outing, _he thought bitterly as he waited for a light to change.

This was the way to Dodger's house, he noted. It was so strange to think that his friend, the girl who he had chatted with over coffee, was a murderer. It was a long time ago, but still – to have the capability to do something like that... It was like they were talking about two different people, he couldn't process that the Dodger Allan he knew would do... that.

So why did he take Owen's word for it.?

He still had the route to her house memorized.

The light changed and, instead of going straight to his place, as he'd planned, he took the turnoff.

-/-/-

Somehow, as Dodger walked towards her house, she was neither surprised nor particularly bothered to find the lights on. She opened and stepped through the unlocked door, took a quick look around, and said coolly, "Hello, Owen."

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said. From the sofa, he clicked the remote and the television show that had been playing vanished with a soft _pop_, replaced by a blank, black screen.

"Anything good on?" she asked, kicking off her shoes and sitting down beside him.

"Not really."

"It figures. When you really need them, distractions are hard to come by."

"Rough day, I take it?"

"You could say that."

This was ridiculous. He had broken and entered, and they were talking like they were old friends (or something more). In less than 24 hours, she would be at a party hosted by a possible sociopath who knew the details of her past. She knew she should be angry, terrified, planning, plotting, running, fighting, pulsing with adrenaline, and yet...

She felt as calm and blank as the television in front of them. Like all the emotions and ideas had played through, leaving her an empty vessel.

It didn't feel bad.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said,

"'Course," said Owen.

"How do you keep getting in?"

He reached into his pocket. "Key," he said with a faint smile, holding it up. A small metal ring was threaded through the hole, though there were no other keys attached. This seemed meaningful to Dodger, though she couldn't say why. It wasn't for any intelligent reason, just one of those spontaneous observations that seemed to fit things together.

"Where did you get it from?"

"Don gave it to me?"

"Who?"

"You don't remember the names of people you give your keys to?" There was no mocking in his voice. In fact, he sounded almost... sad?

She thought hard. Don. Guy in a suit. "Oh, Don," she said, with what she hoped was a nonchalant hand gesture. "Yeah, I had a... thing, with him. It's over now. How did you know about him?"

"I asked about you at the school where you worked. Said I was a friend. Your coworkers seemed surprised."

She said nothing.

"You don't have many friends, do you?" More non-mocking. If it had been a taunt she could have gotten angry, but she was left with a vacuum. She felt like she might collapse in on herself.

"I don't need many friends," she said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Do I seem like the type who would?"

"No."

"Exactly." She moved closer to him, put her arms around him and leaned in to his chest, towards the warmth of his body and the soft beat of his heart.

The room was full of weapons and poisons.

She could kill him, and he knew that.

Kyle could kill her, could be planning it right now.

She was going to that party.

In the harsh contrast of life and death, she was brave.

He put his arms around her, too.


	8. Rationalizing

Eye of the Storm  
Chapter Eight  
Rationalizing

...

Erik was going to die.

_Stop that, _Carol told herself. _You're jumping to conclusions. _

_Fine, _her brain countered. _Erik is going to be alone with a serial killer. Want to take your own guess at the outcome?_

_Shut up. _

But Erik wasn't like her. Kyle liked Erik, so he was safe, right? Kyle wouldn't let Dodger do anything to his friend.

She made herself focus on the sound of her footsteps as she paced the wooden floor of the forest house. Outside, a woodpecker trilled. None of this managed to slow the speed of her thoughts.

She wasn't like Erik. She didn't need to be popular. And though the thought of getting a confession from Dodger was exciting as a fantasy, she couldn't truthfully say she wanted this party. Her happiest moments were alone in her room, lying on her back in the dark, thinking of nothing but the sound in her headphones. Or with Erik, sitting on the roof in the forest, laughing about bad movies and playing Gameboy between the trees.

Now Erik was always busy with Kyle, or talking about how great Kyle was or how awesome the party was going to be. He seemed more excited to be helping host a party than by the prospect of catching a murderer; so excited that Carol knew she had no way of backing out. She wanted him to be happy.

But it had been weeks since she'd been able to listen to music without panicked thoughts intruding on her peace. And she couldn't even bring herself to go up to the roof anymore. Not when she knew what was in the attic she would have to climb through.

...

Dodger hadn't played computer games in years, but the controls were easy to figure out.

First person shooter. Of course it was. But the ammo meter in the side of the screen alerted her she only had a single bullet. Interesting twist.

Kyle McDermott had rendered the halls of Westlake with meticulous accuracy, despite the blocky graphics of the game – the information section in the file indicated it had been released three years prior.

Unlike many of her students, Kyle had an attention span.

A few details were off. Randall's piercings on the wrong side. He sprawled on the ground in the dark room, covered in the blood she knew was really a mix of corn syrup and food colouring.

She raised the gun and blasted a hole in his chest, and he slumped forward. His whole body curved as though the wound had its own gravity. Fake blood mixed with real (no, digital, it's all fake, she reminded herself) and shone black in the darkness.

Game over. Restart?

This time, she hung back in the shadows. The Owen character walked through the hall, arms vibrating with what must have been meant to be panic.

She watched as the brown-haired boy removed the gun from the desk, and she watched as Rich walked in to find him. The two engaged in an argument, entirely silent – there was no sound in the game. But when Owen fired, the noise of the shot seemed to reverberate inside her, an echo from across years.

The screen went black and gave her the option to play again.

This time she shot Owen. He bent down to open the desk, then collapsed forward in a broken mess of blood.

She looked at the real Owen, seated beside her at the computer. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but his expression betrayed nothing. His hands were folded on the table, perfectly still. He could have been watching a laundry detergent commercial for all the emotion he displayed.

Restart.

She shot Rich. She shot a stranger in the hallway. She fired randomly in frustration, bounced the bullet off a trophy case and killed her own character.

Restart, restart, restart.

Then she noticed, during the close-up of her own death, something behind her. This time she turned around, waited for the thing to draw nearer. It was a figure.

A girl with red hair.

And she wasn't following Dodger's character, but like Dodger, was following Owen as well.

That part he'd got wrong. Dodger would never have risked implicating herself, would never have been so close to the scene – no matter how much she'd wanted to see it. (Had she wanted to see it? There seemed to be a difference between wanting someone to die and wanting to be there when it happened, but she wasn't sure why there should be. It wasn't like her, not logical, thinking this way.)

But the rest was disturbingly accurate. Whereas the other character's features were rough approximations, the representation of Dodger was painstakingly detailed, from the shape of her eyes and nose to the colour of lipstick she'd worn in those days.

Dodger clicked. Her doppelganger's knees gave out as a dark hole blew through her chest, crumpling her against a wall. The doppelganger let out a ragged breath – it took Dodger a moment to place why this disturbed her. It was the first sound in the game.

Her eyes were still open, still the exact shade of blue as the real Dodger's.

The camera zoomed in. Dodger's wound was a focal point – even her inides had been rendered in extreme detail. A tide of blood swelled with each heartbeat. Then nothing.

Zoom out.

For the first time, the appearance of the player character became visible. A boy in his late teens with curly brown hair stood above the body of Dodger Allen and smiled.

...

"Can't say I'm surprised," said Dodger.

"So someone did believe me," said Owen quietly.

"No," said Dodger. "He doesn't care about you. He knows how I think."

Still quiet, Owen said, "Did you love him?"

Dodger's mind gradually recovered from the nonsequiter and figured out who "he" referred to.

She had never been easily emotional, nor sentimental in the least. She got a thrill out of being the best at things, and for most of elementary school, she'd studied hard, or at least, she'd studied. Pulled As in all her classes. But by the time middle school hit, she'd lost interest - she knew she could easily place highest, so what was there to prove? Nevertheless, she retained information well, and continued to score high marks, though less conspicuously.

Not that she had lost interest in being the best. She simply took an interest in less academic areas.

As a teenager, she had always been popular. She was good at talking, able to pick up on her conversational partner's interests and appeal to them. She and her friends would break into abandoned houses to play games and tell ghost stories - they never scared her, but she enjoyed their reactions to her own tales. They spent nights in construction sites, talking in the splintery rafters until dawn spread red ink over the horizon. She loved staying up late. Exhaustion tilted her perception just a bit off-kilter, so that her skin hummed and her eyes clung to colours so bright they stung. She felt invincible. And yet, at the same time, exhausted was the only way she felt like she had anything in common with the people around her.

Rich was like that - another thrill. Lighting her up with points of energy the way only something forbidden could. He was the first person she'd kissed where she'd actually felt something, a wave of enjoyment coming over her body and taking her over. All her other kisses had been pieces of plots, steps in a plan, but now she wasn't thinking of the future.

In a dark classroom with the sound of footsteps outside, for one of the few times in her life, she was happy.

The other girl shouldn't have been a shock. Rich was like her, after all, going after what he couldn't have, chasing after excitement. But she disliked the irony - all her life, she'd wanted to relate to other people. Now she finally found someone like her, and rage blackened her insides every time she thought of the bastard. And she couldn't stop thinking about him. She dreamed about him, woke up with the wave of his energy subsiding from her, hollowing her out. He came into her thoughts when she saw a man with blue eyes, when someone with similar posture passed her in the halls.

She was so angry all the time, and he didn't even know it. He pressed himself against her in his car as though nothing had changed, on the outskirts of town where city lights couldn't touch them. She watched the grey ceiling of the Toyota and fantasized about digging her nails into his back until she saw blood.

At least rage was better than emptiness.

"No," she told Owen, knowing she could gain nothing by answering otherwise. "It was exciting, that's all."

His eyes were on the window. Streetlights glowed around the neighboring houses, fogging out the stars with light pollution. "You definitely do think differently."

"How so?" She was genuinely interested in his answer, and why he'd decided to tell her this now.

"I thought if I understood what you did, maybe I could forgive you. But you never lost control, did you? You wanted him dead, and you planned it out - you don't regret it, do you?"

She didn't answer.

"You're going to die if you go to this party."

She shrugged. Her insides felt even blanker than usual.

"Are you still going to go?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

She kissed him on the cheek, to confuse him, or for some other reason she didn't understand. "I don't like losing control."

...

"You're awake."

Carol's mother looked up from the refrigerator at the sound of her daughter's voice, smiled from underneath her tangled hair. "You're home," she said.

Carol didn't answer. She kicked off her shoes and left them askew on the floor. The way her mother used to hate, when she still had the energy to hate things.

Her mother ignored the shoes. "How was your day?" Ignored the fact it was no longer any time close to day.

"Fine."

She began to walk from the room, and her mother called, suddenly. "I think the new medicine's working."

"That's good."

She heard the older woman walking towards her, but didn't turn around. "I was wondering if you wanted to do something tomorrow? We could go to the mall, or maybe watch a movie, like we used to?"

"I have a party tomorrow."

"Oh." Her mother's voice was hurt. Carol glanced at her; she was still doing her best to smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed and the colour of shallow water. Carol quickly looked down at her own socks, instead. "Whose party is it?"

"Just some friends'."

And she walked to her room, finally resolved that she would be at the forest house tomorrow.

...

"Hello?"

"Hey, uh, is Erik there?"

"This is Erik."

"Oh. Hey, it's Darren."

Pause. "Sorry, who is this?"

"Darren. I used to, uh, go to your school."

"Sorry man, I'm not -"

"You're Kyle's friend."

Pause. "What's your last name?"

"Julian"

"How did you get this number?"

"The phonebook, asshat."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Wait, wait - I'm sorry. Wait. I haven't got out of the house much lately, my social skills got shitty, I'm sorry."

"Why are you calling me?"

"Well... so, this guidance counselor came to my house yesterday, wanted to talk about what happened -"

"You mean you planning to kill everyone?"

"How many times do I have to fucking tell you guys -" Deep breath. "Look. Kyle's not a good guy, okay?"

"And I should take your word for this."

"I was his friend too, okay?"

"He never mentioned you."

"We weren't friends in public, okay? Just like you are with him."

"How did you know we were friends?"

Darren pauses, this time. "I looked online. There were message boards with him and two other people. Carol had her name listed on one of them - I tried calling her house first, but no one answered. I figured the other guy had to be you."

"Um... I'm sorry, man, but I'm not sure -"

"The Westlake Prep boards! All that fucking murder shit you guys are all obsessed with!"

"Okay, okay, stop yelling, relax. Yeah, Carol and I hang out there. And we did talk to Kyle about that stuff. But he never told us he had an account."

"WestlakeWolf, remember?"

"...That was him?"

"Yeah." Darren breathes loudly on the other end, coming down from his previous explosion.

"He never mentioned that."

"It's him."

"I believe you."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Damn. Didn't see that coming." Pause. "No one seems to believe me much, lately."

"Would you be able to tell me what happened with him?"

"Yeah." A single laugh, more like a choke. "Man, I'd be fucking honored."

...

Friday morning, students noticed that, for the first time they could recall, Ms Allen looked tired. Her hair had been pinned back in a bun, and her cover-up failed to fully hide the circles under her eyes.

When the bell rang, Kyle made a show of very slowly filling up his bag. Barely a second after the last other student had left the room, he approached her desk. "I hope we're still on for tomorrow."

"I wouldn't miss it," said Dodger. She smiled for the first time that day.


	9. Driving

Eye of the Storm  
Chapter Nine  
Driving

He slept with his back to her, or at least pretended to sleep. Both in their day clothes, on top of the covers. Lying down because there was nothing left to talk about, or no words for what they wanted to say.

The sun breathed pink into the sky.

She remembered neither falling asleep nor waking up, but something had brought her to this day. The day of the party. And of all things, she felt relieved.

She walked to the kitchen and slid couple slices of bread into the toaster.

Her eyes flitted over the newspaper as the clicking of the toaster oven ticked through the room. A few minutes later, a dark shape materialized in her peripheral vision.

"You're awake," she said.

"I didn't get a lot of sleep." The chair creaked gently as he pulled it across the floor and sunk down into a sitting position.

She looked up from the paper - the words weren't staying in place in her head anyway. Owen's eyes were more shadowed than usual.

"Why do you care what happens to me?" she said.

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"Yes."

The toaster dinged, and she stood, scraped the toast onto a plate with a fork. She thrust one piece at him and kept the other to herself.

When she bit down, the taste was like ashes. But it was good to have something to chew on.

He remained sitting as she leaned against the counter. He said, "It's hard when someone you know dies."

She looked at him. "Even someone you hate."

"I don't hate you."

"Then you're an idiot."

"Maybe."

He watched as she took a bite of the toast. If he wasn't so crazy, she would have felt self-conscious. As it was, she couldn't see him judging her - at least, not according to any rules she could make sense of.

Dodger turned her head. The clock read 7:37 in red letters. Almost eleven and a half hours until the party.

She knew she'd be counting down all day.

"I'm going to buy a gun," she said.

He nodded. "You don't already own one?"

"Surprisingly, I live a pretty safe life here."

"Do you like it?"

"I think so. I'm getting used to it, at least."

"This isn't what I expected you would be like now."

"You either." Since she figured the moment couldn't get any more surreal, she said, "Would you like some cereal?"

"I'm okay." With barely a pause, he added, "I think I'll come along to the party."

"No."

"Why not?"

She couldn't think of any reason. "Just don't."

"What I do isn't particularly any business of yours."

"It is in this case." She set her glass of water down, with a great effort not to slam it. "Besides, it's dangerous."

"I find it difficult to believe you have my best interests at heart."

She walked closer to him, straightened her posture. Said very quietly, "Then why do you even care what happens to me?"

He looked back into her blue eyes and didn't say anything.

She kissed him, hard and fast. Because she wasn't sure what else to do. Because she wanted to feel something.

She wasn't sure if she did. Not what she wanted to feel, at least. His lips were soft. His mouth tasted the same as hers, tasted of the toast they'd both eaten.

She waited for him to push her away, or slide his hands under her clothes, but he did neither. He kissed her back. For some reason, she felt as though she was about to cry - not the sadness, but the sense of something inside her trembling. A fragile part she thought she'd long ago killed.

She pulled away, finished her water, and went to get dressed. His eyes followed her as she left the room, but he didn't stand up.

...

"What's up?"

Erik's head darted from side to side, long hair whipping at the sides of his face. "Not here."

"But no one's here yet."

"I know, just... not here, okay?"

"Okay."

Carol followed him through the trees, away from the forest house. Moss squished under her shoes and branches snapped, setting off bursts of birdsong.

They walked until the house was invisible behind the trees, along an erratically curving route Erik orchestrated. His steps were quick and jerky, like an overwound toy. In the years they had known each other, Carol didn't think she had even seen him run - all his energy seemed to go into his elaborate hand gestures. Now, as he struggled to climb over moss-furred logs without reducing his pace, Carol would have laughed if not for the certainty that something was wrong.

Finally, he sat down on a large, grey root.

"So what's going on?" said Carol, trying to keep her voice casual.

"I think - Kyle might be up to something."

"Oh. Really?" She wasn't going for sarcasm, but it was hard to fake surprise. Interest, however, was still there.

"Yeah. I got a weird phone call yesterday. You know Darren from school?"

"I don't think so."

"He was the kid who got expelled for making those plans - that game design, where he shot people."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. So like, he phoned me out of nowhere, and he told me to watch out for Kyle. That he set him up, and if we're his friends... he might do something bad."

"Any thoughts on what kind of something bad?"

He shook his head miserably.

"Look," said Carol, touching his arm. "Are you really going to believe what some stranger says about him?"

"No, but you told me you didn't trust him either."

"That meant something to you?"

"Yeah, of course. You're the smartest person I know."

"Oh. Thanks." Her face felt warm. "He does like you, though. And from what he told you - he wants to do something good, doesn't he? If he gets the confession, and Owen goes free -"

"Owen's out." Erik moved his hands through his hair, making it stand up oddly. Underneath, his face was green-white. "I checked, and his sentence was supposed to be seven years, like Kyle said - but they let him out early. Good behavior."

"But... then what else could he want?"

"I don't know. But I have to go along with it, don't I?"

Carol wished she could say no.

...

Dodger was not particularly fond of guns.

They were obvious. Traceable. Though she'd found them useful when she was younger, she'd aquired a taste for subtler methods.

She hadn't attempted to physically harm anyone since high school. She knew she could do it, so what was the point of rehashing that? Nothing was interesting if it wasn't a challenge.

But she knew the importance of being prepared. She carried poisons in her purse, and she'd attained a firearms liscense years before. Just in case.

The handgun now rested in her bag beside the switchblade, not intended for harm, but for a threat. A teenager might not fear the vial of poison, but she'd seen enough of Kyle's game to know he had a fixation with firearms.

Killing him would bring needless complications; the cover-up would be difficult to pull with so many partygoers around. Possible, obviously - Kyle intended to do the same to her, and intoxicated teenagers wouldn't be the most observant witnesses. But her being there, older and not to mention a teacher, already implicated her as a figure of suspicion.

She intended to get through the night with as little bloodshed as possible. And truth be told, she was rather looking forward to the excitement. Genuine excitement was hard to come by.

"There's the turn-off." Owen pointed from the passenger seat. The location was far out of town, an hour past city limits. Dodger had marvelled that anyone would show up, then recognized the area as being much closer to Kyle's old school. The one where he'd apparently been unpopular - though Dodger very much doubted the truth to that. If Kyle was as proud as she was as a teenager - and his figure in the video game, triumphantly waving his murder weapon, led her to believe he was - he'd never be able to stand for that. He had to be in control at all times. He had to be loved.

Love gave him power over people.

The sky darkened as the blue Mazda moved down the highway, layers of trees skimming past the window. The air was heavy with forest-sounds of cracking branches and the screech of hawks. Even in the car she could smell the pine. Past the canopy, a grey plume wavered towards the low red sun. A bonfire. This must be the place.

She and Owen had passed most of the ride in silence, despite his occasional remarks on directions. He'd stepped through the door of the passenger seat as she set off to buy the gun, and that was that - she knew arguing would only make her frustrated, and as appealing as a hot rush of anger sounded, she had to be clearheaded tonight.

When she'd returned with the gun, Owen had calmly asked her whether she intended to kill Kyle.

"Of course not," she said. For reasons she couldn't understand, something inside her had twinged painfully at his question.

He didn't answer. They drove in silence.

As they drew nearer the smoke, more sounds filled the air. The bass drum of too-loud, too-far music. Wordless young yells.

She pulled up in a grey parking lot, alongside nine other cars - some battered but expensive, others cheap and out-of-date but meticulously cared-for. Teenager cars.

And there were the teenagers, gathered around the orange flicker of flames, silver cans scatterred around their feet. Most of them stood, holding on to their girlfriends and boyfriends and sticks with charred, forgotten marshmallows. A few sat on mossy logs. One boy, on the porch of the huge, unpainted mansion behind the other kids, was instantly recognizable.

He walked towards them, smiling.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said as Dodger opened the door above the asphalt.

"I keep my word," she replied, taking the hand he offered as she stepped out into the blue dusk.

Kyle glanced toward Owen. "And who is this?"

"A friend," said Dodger.

"Owen," said Owen, stepping out to join them.

Kyle's expression changed to something unreadable for a moment, then back to a smile. "Pleased to meet you." The two shook hands. Then Kyle said, "Unfortunately, the party is by invitation only..." Grimacing as though this information pained him, despite him being the one to make these rules.

"That's fine. I was just leaving."

"Alright," said Kyle. He smiled at Dodger, slipped his fingers between hers. "After all, you're here with me.


End file.
